


then, now, always

by rokutouxei



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Character Study, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Relationship Study, even if it's platonic?, genderfluid oikawa, headcanon dump more or less, i guess??, i think handholding iwaoi is my favorite, olympian tooru, spoiler ish tag but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 07:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4382579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rokutouxei/pseuds/rokutouxei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iwaizumi Hajime is Oikawa Tooru’s impulse control, backrest, safety gear. Oikawa is always pushing himself too hard, and fourteen years of friendship has assured both of them that Iwaizumi Hajime’s hand will always be against Oikawa’s calloused palm, their fingers intertwined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	then, now, always

[then]

There’s a star-speckled blue band-aid running across Hajime’s cheekbones from yesterday’s wrestle with a beetle. Today, he lets go of the shiny green insect in exchange for something new: a furry black spider with eyes as red as blood. It’s scary, for sure, and it looks rather fragile, but he’s not afraid of it for anything. For now, he doesn’t know what it’s called, but the rest of that stuff is reserved for later.

Four years of bug-hunting training in their backyard, in the park, and in this small playground has basically turned Hajime into a bug-hunting expert: as much of an expert a four year old can be, at least. The instances where he gets bitten or injured in a week is slowly trickling down into less than tens, so his mother lets him do what he wants more freely. And he wasn’t going to take that freedom for granted.

He’s crouched underneath a green bush, tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth in concentration, coaxing the eight-legged prey into his hands, when he hears a laugh ring across the small playground.

As a rule, the playground sandbox is always open for sharing. The swing and slide are still too high for kids as little as he is, so their main territory had always been the sandbox. Hajime’s never been one to go to it though, preferring going through the nearby foliage to find something alive to look at for the night. But he knows all The Sandbox Kids. They bond over bento boxes when midmorning snack time comes upon them. The laugh he hears is not a laugh he’s ever heard.

It’s a laugh he’s going to know by memory for the rest of his life. (He doesn’t know _that_ yet, though.)

With a flick of his wrist he seals his plastic box, sealing it with a click. ( _Spinarak,_ he murmurs against the box, a name.) He hides the plastic box inside his sling bag before trotting back to his mother, who kisses him on the forehead like she always does before taking his small hand in her bigger one, warm and comforting, before waving goodbye to her friends. Hajime leaves early today to go biking with his father later.

A little boy, younger by the time it takes the full moon to leave and come back (Hajime counts), peers with big round eyes from the sandbox, watches the other boy walk away.

 

* * *

 

[then]

The next day, mid-bite through a flavorful onigiri during the mid-morning snack with The Sandbox Kids, his mother points at the new boy who is (shyly) eating his snack with his sister (not mother, as he’d thought.) He’s wearing a white shirt under denim jumpers, and he’s holding a small UFO toy in his hands. There’s a flower crown on top of his head. Almost four, in around a month, his mother supplies. Almost his age: it’s been a week after Hajime turned four. They’re neighbors now—and they should be friends.

He pats the small container in his bag. Last night, he looked it up with his father through books and the internet and found out what the spider _really_ was. And it was _really_ cool! (But not as cool as any beetle, though.) Of anything he’s done, this is the true _surefire_ way he knows to make friends.

After snack time, Hajime trots to the sandbox, and plops himself down next to the new boy. The rest of The Sandbox Kids shoot an odd look at him, but don’t pay him much attention since they seem to have made friends with the new boy. The kids giggle over a shared joke as Hajime awkwardly sits in their space. Hajime isn’t comfortable in the sandbox; he never has been.

But then the new boy hands him the UFO toy he has in his hand, and shoots him a grin that goes ear-to-ear. He’s missing one front tooth. “Hello, bug kid!”

A frown makes its way to Hajime’s face. “Bug kid?”

“They didn’t want to tell me your real name,” the new boy fills. “Why, what’s your name?”

“I’m Iwaizumi Hajime.”

“Why do they call you the bug kid?”

“Because he only ever plays with bugs!” one of The Sandbox Kids answers.

“Bugs kind of look like aliens sometimes,” the new kid murmurs, mostly to himself, and that is Hajime’s cue to bring out his plastic container. Half of The Sandbox Kids squirm away; the other half peer closer.

Hajime’s grin is big and proud, his chest pushed out.

But things don’t always go the way they’re planned. Hajime brings out the spider out of the container, and as it crawls along his fingers (“Isn’t it itchy?” “No, but it scratches a little.”) they pay close attention, never expecting it to suddenly make a jump toward the new kid’s face.

But he doesn’t scream, or flail, or even whimper. His eyes just go wide as saucers and his body, sat up straight, suddenly falls back-first to the sandbox. One second passes, two, three. His flower crown lands on the sand without so much as a sound. It’s as if everybody’s breath is held. The spider makes its way up his nose and up to his forehead, to his hair.

And then he shrieks.

It’s a piercing shrieks that goes straight to Hajime’s eardrums, and before he even has the chance to react there is snot and tears everywhere. He’s an ugly crier, Hajime fleetingly thinks,before he extends his arm and lets the spider crawl back onto the plastic box he had in his hands.

One of The Sandbox Kids breathe a sigh of relief. Hajime returns the spider inside the container, and seals it tightly with a click. He glares at it like it would calm the insect down.

But then Hajime’s attention is stolen with the sudden shift in the sandbox, and then the new little boy is shaking sand off the flower crown before placing it on top of Hajime’s hair.

“You’re my savior now!” he exclaims.

The Sandbox Kids let out a chorused laugh. But the new kid is just grinning, eyes still slightly glassy.

“I’m your new friend, Oikawa Tooru!”

 

* * *

 

[always]

Iwaizumi Hajime is Oikawa Tooru’s impulse control, backrest, safety gear. Oikawa is always pushing himself too hard, and fourteen years of friendship has assured both of them that Iwaizumi Hajime’s hand will always be against Oikawa’s calloused palm, their fingers intertwined.

 

* * *

 

[now]

Iwaizumi _never_ runs out of messages on his snapchat. He’s damned for good now, he’s sure, and with the amount of pictures Oikawa sends him he’s basically memorized how his friend’s room, school, gym, bed, laptop, _hair and face,_ every single day, looks like.

The first week Oikawa is in Tokyo is spent like this, and admittedly, Iwaizumi sometimes misses the pestering. But he has other things to do now, like med school, and he doesn’t regret a single thing. His Seijou varsity jacket still hangs by his bedroom door.

Eventually, the selfies lessen, but Oikawa never forgets the _Good Morning, Iwa-chan, have a great day (_ _❁_ _´_ _▽_ _`_ _❁_ _)*_ _✲_ _ﾟ_ _*_ text. Iwaizumi thinks Oikawa might be doing better.

But then it is midnight and his phone is vibrating (set on silent since he’s reviewing for a test) and Oikawa’s obnoxious selfie with a wink, a wide grin, and a peace sign for good measure, comes up as the caller image. Iwaizumi has no choice but to answer.

“Shittykawa,” he greets, but there is no anger or spite.

There is a long pause: five to ten seconds. If not for the music playing in the background (some pop-sounding English songs Oikawa _loved_ since they were ten) Iwaizumi would’ve thought the call wasn’t on-going. But then there is a raspy voice, and Iwaizumi takes a moment to consider if it’s from sleep or crying.

“Iwa-chan.”

Crying, for sure.

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever gotten sad that I’ve left you behind?” Oikawa asks. Iwaizumi finishes the sentence: _because I have._

“Idiot,” Iwaizumi curses, roughly under his breath, but Oikawa catches the sting of hurt. “As if you’ll let yourself be rid of me so easily.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t _see_ it, but he can almost _hear_ it through the phone, the hitch of breath from the other end of the line: Oikawa’s grin goes from ear-to-ear, and holds an unsaid promise.

 

* * *

 

 

[then]

He sees someone rock it on the street while on their way to the park, and he decides he _likes_ it. Tooru grows his hair longer than usual before he turns eight. Hajime is, and always has been, an only child. Tooru grows up with an older sister who dotes on him like _crazy._ His sister helps him style his hair, and on his birthday he comes out with two pigtails at the top of his head, curls dangling out (it reminds Hajime of horns but he’ll _never_ admit that).

“Hajime you’re such an asshole!” Tooru says, but only in a whisper so his mother doesn’t hear, but Iwaizumi continues to knot the strings of the balloons into his curls.

“Maybe with this you’ll fly up and meet the aliens you like _so much._ ”

Hajime, with the help of his mother, gives him a volleyball for his birthday. He thinks of it after they watched a casual volleyball match happen in the park while they were racing their bikes, and Tooru had a sparkle in his eye that Hajime had never seen on him before.

They have an impromptu sleepover (which isn’t a big deal now, living _right next to each other_ ) and as Tooru grumbles in front of the mirror with the scissors to snip off the strings in his long and messy hair—“Hajime will you help me comb it?” “Shut up Tooru let your sister do it.” “Meanie!”—Hajime throws the volleyball onto the blank wall back and forth, back and forth.

When he’s done he goes over to Hajime and steals the ball as it bounces back to him.

“I can’t play this alone, you know?”

“Volleyball is a six-player sport.”

“We can start with two,” Tooru offers.

They play together.

 

* * *

 

 

[then]

They're in middle school when Tooru growth spurt kicks in, leaving Hajime behind him in the dust. Here, the nickname Iwa-chan erupts in between bouts of laughter and Tooru—no, _Oikawa_ now, simply to spite him!—rests his elbow on top of Hajime's head like it's no big deal.

Here Oikawa learns to practice his star blinding smile. If his voice had a color Iwaizumi could have _sworn_ he could see his friend’s voice turn hazel when he speaks with his slowly-increasing number of fans. He’s a great setter, after all, tall, handsome, and charming in his own special way (Iwaizumi would _never_ tell him that face-to-face, for he’d never hear the end of it!).

But Iwaizumi knows how Oikawa smiles for real: eight, the first time they watched ET and Oikawa was crying and had snot all over his nose but smiled because Iwaizumi _was,_ too, he couldn’t _help_ it. Ten, their first real match as players in an elementary game. Twelve, when they both got into Kitagawa Daiichi.

The smiles he shows people are calloused, practiced—and Oikawa always has a tendency to _overpractice_ himself—and Iwaizumi _hates_ it.

 

* * *

 

 

[always]

Oikawa has always had callouses since the two of them began playing volleyball in elementary. Iwaizumi’s practically _memorized_ the purple of bruise against Tooru’s skin, the pink of freshly-bled or still bleeding scrapes on whatever they’re doing.

But these are not the only callouses Iwaizumi is familiar with. There are callouses that only show in the way Oikawa holds himself for the day. If Iwaizumi’s temper leaks out like a whistling kettle, singing, slowly attempting to stabilize itself, Oikawa has a tendency to pop like a pressurized balloon, rupturing himself from the inside.

 

* * *

 

 

[then]

Oikawa tugs at the sleeves of his blazer more and more often during class. As if he was trying to hide something down his arms or wrists. Oikawa, who usually takes the longest changing from uniform to practice clothes, is the fastest to run in and out. Iwaizumi notices that pause Oikawa does when he’s taking off the long sleeves of his blazer. They make sure to stay the last in the gym, too.

But Iwaizumi notices the bruises forming along Oikawa’s arms. The fainter ones are pale pink, but the worst ones, from _what_ he might not ever know, are violet, and they are staunchy and show even after several layers of concealer. Oikawa side-eyes every time Iwaizumi casts a second glance at them but pretends that he never noticed, and Iwaizumi won’t tell him anyway.

 _That night_ when Iwaizumi doubles back to the gym that one time in the third year of middle school he _knew_ he would find Oikawa there. He is sure.

Before he knows it, he’s leapt forward to catch Oikawa’s wrist with one firm hand. Oikawa’s force is strong enough to make him stagger a little, but it’s the look on his face that makes Iwaizumi swallow a mouthful of spit. Shock, anger, and anguish burn in his cheeks, flushed from the pressure slowly turning pale. When Oikawa’s arm limps from tenseness, Iwaizumi gives it a careful squeeze before letting go.

Iwaizumi doesn’t even hear what he’s saying. Suddenly, everything is in slow motion. Him, telling Kageyama to go. Him, bursting on to Oikawa’s bad spurt. Oikawa, rambling about Shiratorizawa, about Ushijima—about winning.

“Do you think you’re fighting by yourself?!”

It’s a dam that bursts. Oikawa rubs the back of his hand against his bloody, dripping nose. Iwaizumi is tired, is getting tired, because _hell_ Oikawa can’t beat a team on his own. _You’ve never been alone, Tooru,_ is what he’s trying to say, trying to reach onto his friend’s shoulder to remind him he’s right there and the team is right there but Oikawa’s looking too far out to even notice.

This is the only way Iwaizumi ever knows how to get to Oikawa: with his hands.

So he lifts Oikawa’s shirt in his fists, knocks some sense into him, shakes him like no tomorrow. Ever since Kageyama came in, Oikawa listened less and less to the outside, always listening in to his thoughts, to his insecurities, and it’s time the safety belt locked him back in. Iwaizumi only half-hears what he’s saying.

Then Oikawa shuts up.

“Did I headbutt you too hard?” Iwaizumi asks, but it’s more teasing than serious. There’s a smile fluttering underneath his jaw and he can _feel it,_ and it tickles, and he’s sure it’s going to come out the moment Oikawa looks up at him.

It does.

“Somehow, I feel invincible.”

-

Iwaizumi doesn’t fail to make Oikawa do his stretching first, and clean up the gym, and change into clean clothes ( _you’re gonna be damned as a captain if you make a mess and leave it like this, Shittykawa_ – _Mean, Iwa-chan!_ ) but the moment Oikawa is finally breathing normally and has that glint in his eye again, Iwaizumi drives a soft punch against his upper arm and grins.

“Let’s watch alien movies at your house tonight,” Iwaizumi finally relents, and races Oikawa down the street from Kitagawa Daiichi.

 

 

* * *

 

[always]

_We’re all working as hard as you. For you. For us._

 

* * *

 

 

[then]

Oikawa plays with the hem of his scarf and it irks Iwaizumi because Tooru is never, _never_ this jittery.

“You’re going to hate me,” he bumbles. He’s sure. He’s been sure a long time.

Iwaizumi doesn’t know where he picked that up. He could never hate Tooru—never for long, never for real. “It can’t be _that_ bad.”

It is two summers before they enter Kitagawa Daiichi that Hajime learns that Tooru is special. In a certain way. Some days, Tooru admits, are _they_ days, and some days there are _she_ days. But there are _he_ days, too, and they come and go as easily as time ticks by.

A light breeze does little to ease the prickling heat and Oikawa swipes a bead of sweat off their brow—today is a _they_ day, they say—and bites on their lower lip nervously.

“Idiot,” he grumbles. “I’ve always known you were somehow special.”

There’s no irony in his words, no sarcasm. The bluntness is something Oikawa is used to, but this time it surprises him. “How did you know?”

Iwaizumi gawks, stares at his best friend with his mouth hanging open and eyes narrowed like he’d seen something stupid. “You’re my best friend?”

Oikawa’s lower lip juts out in earnest love, surprise letting tears well around his—their eyes. They catch their friend’s hands in theirs. “Hajime!”

 

* * *

 

 

[then]

The first official volleyball match they play together, Hajime _slams_ that final point into the ground with a bang that resounds in a way that imprints itself in Tooru’s memory. Hajime’s palm burns red after the game: a lot of hands shaken sores it a bit more, but he remembers the curve of the ball before he’d pushed it down full force, and the pain disappears.

Tooru, however, holds his hand gentler, palm up, fingers tracing the red lines.

Then he begins to cry.

“Oi, Tooru!” Hajime suddenly blinks. “Why is it that you’re such a crybaby!”

“I’m not a crybaby!” Tooru defends, but there is snot dripping down his nose that Hajime has to catch with Tooru’s shirt or else it’s going to go _everywhere._ “You’re just a heartless beast.”

“Should I leave you alone here?” Hajime sneers.

“NO!” Tooru says. “No, don’t leave me yet. This is just our first match together!”

When he looks back up at Hajime, he’s grinning like the world is conspiring all for him.

“I had fun,” is all Hajime can say. He turns his palm up again, looking at the redness slowly seeping away.

Tooru nods in assent. “Let’s play together always!”

 

* * *

 

 

[now]

Oikawa Tooru never seems to understand when Iwaizumi Hajime tells them to _stop sending him snapchats when they are in practice_ but Iwaizumi doesn’t really mind. Being a preschool/elementary school doctor keeps him busy only when the start-of-school annual check-ups occur and when clubs need certifications to play; rare are the times that there are major injuries. A cut or a scrape from running and slipping, most likely, but there is rarely too busy a day.

There’s a hospital waiting on him to take the position as another of their pediatricians, but since the policy requires him at least a year of experience, Iwaizumi is here, working in a school one train ride away from his house and scrolling through Oikawa Tooru’s snapchats of their Olympic jersey the daybefore Olympics.

There’s a full body mirror selfie, inside what seems to be the locker room, and Oikawa has their bangs up in a familiar mint green bow, their Olympic jersey fitting well on their athletic form. They’ve traded the white knee brace for a long black one, and of course there is still the obligatory peace sign.

The caption reads: _I look cute in it don’t I Iwa-chan :3c_

Iwaizumi sends a picture of the outside of his window. He types out a message: _That bow looks familiar_

The reply is quick. Four messages. All four is of the close up of Oikawa’s face, the same familiar expression.

The first one, three seconds: _(_ _≧_ _ڡ_ _≦_ _*) I know, it’s my good luck charm!_

The second one, five seconds: _It looks so good on me too!! (^3^)_

The third one, seven seconds: _Next one’s without caption and is ten seconds so you can screenshot it well!! ;3c_

The fourth one, ten seconds. As promised: it’s perhaps the best looking selfie in the series of four and _just to humor them_ Iwaizumi screenshots it. He may be able to use it for teasing in the future.

Iwaizumi can’t help the grin that spreads on his face.

This one will get him, he’s sure.

He takes a picture of two rectangular sheets, one blue and one white. A ticket to the Shinkansen, and a ticket to—well.

The caption: _coming with Hanamaki and Matsukawa._

Oikawa’s next message is a close up of his eyes all teary and the caption: _Don’t make me cry before practice!!_

 

* * *

 

 

 [now]

Iwaizumi doesn’t even bother to knock anymore. It’s _his_ room, after all, and even if Oikawa’s taken to leaving a bunch of their clothes inside an obnoxiously neon pink box inside his closet (his mother had yet to ask questions, but these were _sure_ to come), they still didn’t need to take _a whole hour_ to get dressed.

“Oi, Shittykawa, we’re going to miss the ticketing,” Iwaizumi calls out. The music festival committee is very particular about time, Iwaizumi _knows,_ and the fact that he’s _letting Oikawa in_ is something in itself already. They can’t afford to be late. But with his hand still on the doorknob, he pauses.

Oikawa’s grown their hair longer now that they’re out of high school, but they still can’t grow it out _too_ long because of volleyball. A sheepish grin makes its way up to their face when they see him through the reflection on full-length mirror in front of which they were seated.

“Oops—I didn’t notice the time,” Oikawa says. They’ve still got a few loops of hair on the floor, and their hands on their scalp.

Iwaizumi can’t help the smile that spreads across his own face. “Do you need some help?”

They were in middle school when Oikawa had first heard of the term _genderfluid,_ and they didn’t stop talking about it for a long time. And then they stopped, completely, and admittedly Iwaizumi was a little surprised at the sudden shift of dynamic. But it was easier to talk to Oikawa about volleyball, anyway.

But then Oikawa began to stop chattering—at all.

It took a bit for Iwaizumi to understand what had happened: how Oikawa began to worry about their voice deepening. Iwaizumi gave them a punch to the back and to the gut and told them it doesn’t _matter._

Oikawa’s held on to those words all this time.

“Really, Iwa-chan?” their eyes sparkle and their grin turns a little more honest. Iwaizumi can sense the surprise.

“If it’s going to _speed you up_ then yeah, I would.” He sits behind Oikawa and helps them put on the extensions. (He knows because Oikawa’s taught him before.) The extensions curl hazel like Oikawa’s hair, and it blends it _too_ well Iwaizumi would never have known they were fake if he’d seen them after.

The first time Oikawa asks Iwaizumi to come with them is a long while after they’d heard of the term. That Saturday was a she day. Iwaizumi wasn't shocked or angry or mad when Oikawa called out from her bedroom window at eight a.m. after breakfast to ask if they could walk in the park and if they'd walk together. He, instead, sees the light blue skirt hanging from the cabinet (it's probably her sister's) and grins at her to say he'll be ready in five.

"Fetch me at the door!" Oikawa asked with a wink, and even if she hadn't asked it, Iwaizumi would've done it otherwise.

He wiped his hands to the fabric of his shorts around fifteen times before Oikawa finally prances out the door with the skirt around her waist and a white sweater. It’s fall now, much colder, and school’s starting soon. There’s a shy glint that hides in her confident eyes.

Years later, Oikawa has the same look in their eye when they finally finish with the extensions. As they do a few finishing touches with make-up— _I swear, Iwa-chan, this mascara will take 0 minutes_ —they do a twirl in front of the mirror and for Iwaizumi.

"You don't look too bad right now," Iwaizumi assures, and when Oikawa quirks up a look at him, he only shrugs. He extends a hand toward his friend, subtly eyeing his watch to check out for the time.

Oikawa doesn’t even notice. A grin blossoms uncontrollably across their features, staining their cheeks and ears red. They grab Iwaizumi’s hand and squeezes it gently in thanks.

 

* * *

 

 

[always]

Their fingers are interlocked.

 

* * *

 

 

[now]

Sometimes when schedules coincide, one of them takes a train toward the other and they spend a weekend (a week, a month) stargazing and watching movies under a stupid UFO blanket (there’s always one no matter where they go). Iwaizumi joins Oikawa on three-on-three matches with other National Team aspirants, and admittedly Oikawa’s sing-song repetition of the diagnoses for the symptoms Iwaizumi is trying to memorize is helping drill it into his brain.

A year after Oikawa is made reserve setter for the Olympic team, they go visit Iwaizumi by surprise. Despite the paper sitting on his desk to be finished for his internship, he decides to humor their old friend,

They take the time to visit their favorite (they must be biased, somehow) Aoba Jousai volleyball club, chatting with the coach and a few of the players over techniques and experiences, before they spend the late afternoon inside a coffee shop that serves Oikawa’s favorite chocolate chip cookies.

With a grin and a lipful of whipped cream from their drink, Oikawa looks up at Iwaizumi and tells him, with a voice so serious even Iwaizumi had to look at them a second time _just to be sure_ it was them that was talking, “Hey, Iwa-chan, did you know, they say that friendship that exceeds six years will last a lifetime.”

A pause. Oikawa’s laugh rumbles through their lower lip, shaking it, begging to come out.

“I guess I’m damned,” Iwaizumi sighs. Oikawa’s laughter rolls out loudly, ringing through the store, like a shot of sunlight.

Three stops through sports stores they love and into the local music shop so Oikawa can buy the new album their favorite pop band (which Iwaizumi doesn’t quite like or dislike, but can tolerate), they pause by the riverside to watch the sky dapple into reds and yellows.

Suddenly, they are eight, not twenty, not older.

They don’t share words, only glances, and a gentle touch: Oikawa chuckling and ruffling a hand through Iwaizumi’s hair and Iwaizumi throwing a soft punch to Oikawa’s shoulder.

“Hey, Kusokawa, let’s go,” Iwaizumi calls.

Oikawa pauses. “Mean, Iwa-chan.” But they only take a moment, indulging in a last fleeting glance to the sunset, before hopping back on the bike, and goes.

**Author's Note:**

> Birthday fic for my baby/husband/precious Oikawa Tooru! / Hullo 2020 Olympics is in Tokyo, I hear  
> [this is on tumblr](http://rokutouxei.tumblr.com/post/124572219667/then-now-always)


End file.
